An Itch
It's funny how the fingers quiver-
The mind throbbing-
Those talons clawing on that brain.
And you smoke a cigarette
To calm those nails,
To numb that head.
But the drums never do stop beating
Against holes of those temples-
Fingerprints underneath your skin.
Bum Dum Bum Dum.
The pace of those ritual drums.
Bum Dum Bum Dum.
The pace those hands crawl inside your veins,
And mold metal within the blood,
Rusting mint limbs.
Bum Dum Bum Dum.
- July 2013
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